

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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EMILY MALBONE MORGAN 

AUTHOR OF “ A POPPY GARDEN ” 
“A LITTLE WHITE SHADOW,” ETC. 









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Madonnas of the Smoke 


OR OUR 


“MARY’S MEADOW” 



EMILY MALBONE MORGAN 


AUTHOR OF “A LITTLE WHITE SHADOW,” “a POPPY GARDEN” 

“prior rahere’s rose” 


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NEW YORK 

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 

182 Fifth Avenue 









Copyright , 1893, 

By Anson D. F. Randolph & Company. 

(INCORPORATED.) 


JKntbfrsttg 10rcg3: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 


07 - 


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TO 

HOUSE-MOTHER LENA 

AND 

ALL DEAR GIRL FRIENDS OF “HEARTSEASE” 







































































































































































































































Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, 

Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 

They are leaning their young heads against their 
mothers, 

And that cannot stop their tears. 

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows; 

The young birds are chirping in their nest; 

The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; 

The young flowers are blowing towards the West ; 
But the young, young children, O my brothers, 

They are weeping bitterly! 

They are weeping, in the playtime of the others, 

In the country of the Free ! 


Mrs. Browning. 




















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NOTE. 


TN childish days we believed in 
A fairies lurking under every leaf 
and flower. In later life this belief 
may have developed into something 
stronger, and we feel that a holier 
spirit broodeth over the face of 
Nature, and that the nearer we live 
to its heart, the nearer we live in 
reality to the heart of God. This is 
a season of the year when those who 
are specially interested in vacation 
and Fresh Air Work are not made 
altogether happy by the world wak- 
ing like the Sleeping Beauty at the 
kiss of the Spring into the fulness of 
its resurrection life, because every 
flower, bud, and green leaf seems to 
say, “You have us always. There are 
some who never have us at all.” 


Note. 


viii 

Fresh Air funds there are in 
abundance, but those who are in- 
terested in this work are always, like 
hungry Olivers, crying for more ; for 
they alone know of the many who are 
left behind, as well as of those who 
go to seashore and country. It is, 
therefore, to the strong we would 
plead the cause of the weak, — of the 
little children in our cities, — and beg 
of every one who may read this that 
if he do nothing else, he will give 
some child at least an hour’s pleasure 
this coming summer. To us it may 
mean very little, — only an extra 
effort ; to them it may mean a happy 
memory for years. If we have ever 
felt ourselves the uplift of purer air, if 
God has spoken to us in the music of 
woodlands, of mountain breezes, or 
the murmur of breaking waves, what 
conception do we suppose those can 
have of Him, or of a better country, 
who never see Nature as it is, and 


Note. 


IX 


whose lives the sun only touches 
obliquely as it shines for a few hours 
daily into narrow streets and courts ? 

The love of a child’s heart, and a 
child’s gratitude, are worth the win- 
ning. They are among the few 
things left that cannot be bought 
with gold. Are there not more who 
are willing to win it for themselves 
and become “ Madonnas of the 
Smoke ” this summer, in bringing 
the “happy meadows” nearer to 
some little child? 

E. M. M. 




MADONNAS OF THE SMOKE. 


I. 

jy^RS. EWING, that dearly beloved of 
English story-writers for children, 
once wrote a charming story called “ Mary’s 
Meadow,” full of quaint child-life and the 
lovely flowers of an English spring; but 
this is the story of quite another 
“ meadow,” named “ Mary’s Meadow ” by 
girls who probably never heard of Mrs. 
Ewing or her stories, for they were the 
busy girls of a large manufacturing city, 
who had formed themselves into a club. 
They first began by meeting in one of the 
downstairs rooms of an old factory; and 
as they shared their large quarters until 
autumn with the birds of the air who had 
built their nests in the recesses of the 


12 Madonnas of the Smoke. 

windows, many of which were paneless, 
they did not pay rent for it any more 
than their feathered brothers who had 
taken possession without asking leave. 

When they numbered thirty, they had 
a consultation one day, and decided to 
start their club on a co-operative basis. 
They found that if they each paid twenty 
cents a month towards expenses, they 
could hire a room. This they accord- 
ingly did, in their own part of the city, 
down among the smoke and blackness of 
the great iron foundries, and furnished it 
at first with one chair and a table. Grad- 
ually each one, as she could afford it, 
made some addition. One girl painted 
the floor, another put up curtains of blue 
basket cloth at the windows. Then they 
had some shelves placed in the corner, 
where each one owned a plate and cup 
and saucer; lastly, they painted their 
table to resemble Jacob’s coat of many 
colors, and purchased a lamp with a gor- 
geous blue shade to stand on it. This 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 1 5 

was all, but they were as proud of it as 
if it were a palace of the Caesars. 

The city in which they lived presented 
a great parable of life in its different 
phases. Its principal street ran like a 
huge artery through the middle, dividing 
it into two separate and distinct cities ; 
and if it had been sunk between preci- 
pices, it could not have been a deeper 
gulf. On one side was a city of quiet, 
cultured homes, beautiful gardens and 
residences; on the other side, bordering 
on a large river, were great factories and 
foundries, and the people who worked 
in them lived in the sooty air and 
smoke. 

It was seldom that these toilers crossed 
over the main street into the city of beau- 
tiful homes. It was still more seldom 
that the people of the city of beautiful 
homes crossed over the street and went 
down into the noise and smoke, save a 
few men striving, like all the rest down 
there, for the ’mighty dollar. Even the 


1 4 Madonnas of the Smoke. 

churches of each city kept their own side 
of the street. That was some years ago. 
Some one who has come from there re- 
cently says this is all changed now. Then, 
however, the people of the city by the 
black river and the people of the city of 
green lawns and stately houses never met 
each other. If they had, life would have 
been broader and grander for each. As 
it was, their judgment of one another was 
one-sided and warped. They glared at 
each other over the chasm of the dividing 
main street. The poor blamed the rich 
for being rich; the rich regarded the 
poor as something to be tolerated in 
their midst, and the laborer as a human 
machine. They condemned one another 
without knowledge of their need of one 
another to render their lives in each case 
more complete. 

One evening, shortly after our girls had 
moved into their new club room, they 
began talking over winter plans. Most 
of them longed greatly for more oppor- 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 1 5 

tunities of self-improvement, and for some 
inspiration outside themselves. In dis- 
cussing different ways and means, they 
finally settled on having three informal 
“ talks ” given at their club-room, pro- 
vided they could get some one to “ talk.” 
The first and only talk, however, that 
they had that winter was given them by 
a girl of their own age. She also lived 
in their “ city,” as one of their neigh- 
bors, and taught a free kindergarten. 
She had a fair, sweet face, and an air of 
exquisite refinement about her which had 
always attracted the girls whenever they 
had met on their way to and from work. 
She spoke to them that night on some 
of the world’s great pictures, and illus- 
trated her talk with photographs. The 
last one she showed them was one of the 
rarest of Raphael’s Madonnas, having in 
it all the devout feeling of that early 
Christian art which he learned first from 
his master Perugino, as a youth among 
the Umbrian hills, and expressing, above 


1 6 Madonnas of the Smoke . 

all other pictures, the sacred and eternal 
motherhood. 

“ I am going to leave this picture with 
you, girls/’ she said simply, in closing. 
“ When I graduated from the training- 
school where I studied kindergarten work, 
the senior teacher called all of my class 
into her room and gave us each a copy 
of this picture, saying it was her custom 
to give it to all who left the school, so 
that whenever we looked at it we might 
learn the attitude God wanted us all to 
have as women towards little children ; 
and I have brought you this to hang in 
your club room, — the picture of Mother 
and Child, — so you may never misun- 
derstand the tenderness God meant us all 
to have.” 

The girls were very much delighted 
with it, for it was the first present that 
had ever been given them. They clubbed 
together and had their picture framed, 
and hung it over their empty fireplace, 
— the only thing on the bare walls. The 


Madonnas of the Smoke. ly 

girl’s words, too, had left their impression. 
Some harsh words and slang phrases, so 
easy to pick up in the streets sometimes, 
died on the lips before they were uttered, 
because of the Divine Child hanging on 
the wall above them in his mother’s 


arms. 


i8 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 


II. 

^pHE winter passed rapidly. The spring 
came, and from the middle of May 
the air became stifling. No odor of 
springtime reached the busy workers 
through the heavy leaden air ; the breath 
of the great furnaces seemed to be every- 
where, and their windows had always to 
be closed to keep out the black dust. 
But from those club-room windows the 
girls could see, on clear days, across the 
river, which ran muddy and dark near 
the wharves on their own side, water 
that sparkled, and green and white laden 
fruit-trees budding in the sunshine, and 
fields white with bluettes, or yellow with 
dandelions and buttercups; and with that 
vision before them, as of some far-off 
valley of peace, they could no longer go 
to their club room evenings. Instead, 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 19 

they would meet by agreement at the 
corner of the street, and walk, in groups 
of twos and threes, some little distance 
along the river and across a bridge, sim- 
ply to get a whiff of fresh air after the 
day’s work. 

One Sunday evening three of them, 
more bold than the rest, left the dusty 
highway and seated themselves under 
the trees in a beautiful meadow which 
bordered the river. It was one’s ideal 
meadow, with just enough trees in pleas- 
ant groups to make it shady, and with 
plenty of good, green grass, dotted with 
flowers. A brook ran through one end 
of it, and emptied itself into the river 
farther on, — a little, noisy brook, bab- 
bling and singing over smooth, round, 
pebbly stones, and banked with ferns and 
moss, in which grew shy, white violets. 
At the end farthest from the river was a 
stone wall bordered by cherry and apple 
trees, and the roof of a house rising above 
the trees, while behind it was a bit of 


20 Madonnas of the Smoke. 

woodland. All this was within a stone’s 
throw of the high-road and the bridge 
which they had crossed. They had only 
to run down a grassy bank to reach it. 
Few bridges as short as that ever bridged 
two greater extremes. On the one side 
was black smoke, rising and curling itself 
into everlasting question-marks against 
the heavens ; on the other, sunlight and 
the tender green of springtime, and Life 
springing anew from the icy grasp of 
Death. 

The girls had been gathering flowers, 
and they now sat under the trees talking 
over future plans. 

“ I wish,” said one, “ we could have a 
field like this for our club room this 
summer.” 

“ Oh, pray don’t stop there ! ” said 
another; “wish for the moon and a few 
other impossible things while you are 
about it.” 

The third girl said nothing; she only 
found out, before she went home, the 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 21 

name of the man who owned the field. 
A few evenings later in the week she 
crossed the bridge all by herself, went 
past the. meadow, and lifted the knocker 
on the front door of the old white house 
beyond, enshrouded in blossoming trees. 
A comely, middle-aged woman came to 
the door, and she inquired for the man 
of the house. When he appeared in 
answer he proved to be a very old man 
with white hair, who, however, still stood 
erect, and looked around the world with 
confident eyes, which had still something 
of the sparkle of youth in them, spite of 
his eighty years. 

The girl introduced herself as Alice 
Atwater, and asked at once, in a busi- 
ness-like way, for how much he would 
rent the meadow for the summer. She 
told him a little of her club, and of how 
warm it was in their club room now that 
summer was coming on. He listened in- 
credulously. He belonged to a genera- 
tion when women did not organize them- 


22 Madonnas of the Smoke. 

selves into clubs. He had had a daughter 
once of his own ; if she had lived she 
also might have belonged to a club. He 
forgot that if she were living she would 
be gray-haired and over fifty. He only 
thought of her as a girl as old as this 
girl when she died, and of how she too 
might have come walking over the river 
from the black cloud on the other side, 
and asked for a meadow to walk in. 

“ You shall have the medder free,” he 
said. 

“ But we don’t want it free,” said the 
girl. “ We can’t pay very much, but we 
can all pay something.” 

“ The birds build their nests in the 
trees there, the frogs and the fishes live in 
the brook, and a thousand ’nd one insects 
live in the grass; they don’t pay no rent,” 
said the old man, slowly. 

“ We are a little superior to them, I 
hope,” answered Alice, smiling. 

So they finally settled on a dollar and a 
half a month, as the old man refused to 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 2 3 

take more. Then he stood on the door- 
step in the evening light, and watched 
her sturdy little figure on its homeward 
journey till it was lost in the shadow of 
the bridge. “ Not a good barg’in,” he 
thought to himself, muttering, as old men 
will. ‘‘ Some folks ’ll say I hav’ gone ha’f- 
way crazy; but folks o’ my time o’ life, 
with the light o’ another world dawnin’, 
kin make trades where it ain’t take all 
and give as little as ye kin in return.” 


24 Madonnas of the Smoke. 


III. 


LICE ATWATER, meantime, went 



back into the stifling atmosphere of 
the club room on Calvert Street, and told 
the astounded members of the Madonna 
Club (for that was what they called 
themselves after their talk from their girl 
friend), that she had hired, in their name, 
a meadow on the other side of the river 
for the entire summer. Any one passing 
below in the dark, narrow street that 
evening must have wondered at the eager 
voices and joyous laughter which reached 
them through the open windows of the 
floor above. The girls could hardly wait 
for the next day, when they went over 
in a body and celebrated their first eve- 
ning of possession with a game of tag; 
then called on Mr. Welcome (for that 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 25 

was the old gentleman’s name), and sim- 
ply deafened him with thanks, insisting 
on prepaying their rent for June. 

After they had been in possession of 
their field a week, they began to notice 
great changes. They found nice wooden 
benches and seats under the trees. A 
great swing appeared under a huge maple, 
and hammocks were swung in shady 
nooks, where the branches of two trees 
met and whispered to each other, and a 
girl might lie underneath and listen to 
the birds singing vespers. The girls, 
when they had made these discoveries, 
promptly appointed a committee to go 
and thank old Mr. Welcome, who actu- 
ally pretended to know nothing about 
how they had gotten there, and told 
them to go and ask the birds. A week 
later they were surprised to see a little 
rustic house going up in a corner of the 
field nearest the cherry-trees. It was 
built of logs, and had a small piazza sup- 
ported by young cedar trees. The girls 


26 Madonnas of the Smoke . 

wondered greatly about it, but of course 
could ask no questions, as Mr. Welcome 
certainly had a right to build what he 
liked on his own land. When it was fin- 
ished, as it was towards the end of June, 
Mr. Welcome appeared one evening and 
invited them in. They found a cosey, 
plainly furnished little sitting-room with 
a neat closet, in which there -was some 
china, and a small outer room where 
there was a tiny stove on which the ket- 
tle was already boiling. There was a 
sofa in the sitting-room with plenty of 
cushions, two or three rocking-chairs, and 
a centre table spead for afternoon tea. 
Mr. Welcome took them all over this 
small domain, and then begged they 
would accept the use of it for the sum- 
mer. Alice, in the name of the club, 
did so graciously, but offered to pay 
rent, at which he was quite indignant. 

“ I ha’ lived into a time,” he said, 
“when money ain’t o’ no account. I’ve 
got to be paid in some other coin. I ’d 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 27 

rather hear a girl’s laugh or a child’s 
voice.” 

They were independent and rather 
proud girls, and as a club they fulfilled 
all the requisitions of the modern work- 
ing girls’ club, for they were self-govern- 
ing, self-supporting, and co-operative, and 
had been so from the beginning; but 
some of them had the finer sense to 
know that everything cannot be reduced 
to a dollars-and-cents value, — least of all 
a girl’s laugh or a child’s voice, — and so 
they were willing to accept the loan as it 
had been made, and to co-operate with 
Mr. Welcome in giving them a pleasure. 
It is quite as much of a virtue after all 
to know how to accept gracefully, as it is 
to reject help, which, in the end, will 
make us weakly dependent. 


28 


Madonnas of the Smoke, 


IV. 

rainy evening shortly after this 
the Madonna Club had a meeting 
in their lately much neglected club room. 
The blue curtains were drawn, and in the 
centre of their table were some quince 
blossoms in a bean jar, brought from 
the borderland of their meadow. The 
shaded lamplight cast a dim radiance 
over Raphael’s picture as it hung above 
their heads. The sweet, pure, girlish face 
of the mother seemed to look down into 
theirs pleadingly, and her hands seemed 
to clasp the little child with a warm, 
human clasp. Alice drew the attention 
of the girls to it, and the way the soft 
light fell across their faces. As they 
looked they seemed to forget time; and 
the centuries that rolled between them 
melted for a moment into the “ infinite 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 29 

azure of the past.” Mary seemed to be 
a living, sweet, and womanly presence in 
the room, holding a child out to them. 
They did not understand the meaning of 
it that night or the next; but when the 
first days of July came, with an over- 
powering heat that was phenomenal even 
in the crowded city, and in its wake 
stalked the shadows, blacker than the 
smoke, of fever and death, they began to 
read the meaning better, and saw a child 
held out to them in every little sick or 
wearied one they met in the crowded 
alleys and streets down near the wharves. 

It was Alice, as usual, who worked 
quietly and said little, who understood 
the meaning first. One night, when she 
came across the bridge, she led a little 
child by the hand. She was pale and 
thin, and had that pitiful, old look on 
her face which one sees only in faces of 
children who live in the crowded and 
squalid quarters of great cities. Alice had 
found her in an attic room, in one of the 


jo Madonnas of the Smoke. 

most crowded of the big tenements which 
stood in behind one of the largest of the 
foundries. She had been ill, yet her 
mother had to leave her every day to 
earn the day’s bread. At first the little 
thing hardly knew what to do when she 
found herself sitting on the grass under 
the trees by Alice’s side ; but soon a 
sense of glad possession came over her. 
She began to pick the buttercups and to 
run about in the tall grass. “ Mary’s own 
medder!” she exclaimed; “Mary’s own 
pretty flowers ! ” 

“How she does enjoy herself!’’ said 
one of the girls, as they sat watching the 
child play. “ And the pity of it is, there 
are so many more where she came from 
who would enjoy it, too.” 

“ Plenty more of them, indeed,” said 
Alice, “ to share our meadow.” 

“ Old Mr. Welcome might not like us 
to fill the meadow with children,” said 
one, more cautious. So Alice, to make 
quite sure, went and asked him. He said 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 31 

the meadow was theirs for the summer, 
to do what they liked with it. They 
might even rent it for Barnum’s show, if 
they wanted to. He probably would not 
have made so rash a statement, however, 
if he had not regarded himself as meas- 
urably safe from such an infliction. 

The next night a few more children 
came with Alice, and by the end of the 
week every girl of the Madonna Club 
who crossed the bridge led a child by 
the hand. In another week the children 
needed no invitation ; they knew the 
place, and came there in steadily increas- 
ing numbers every night. After awhile, 
on Sunday afternoons, their fathers and 
mothers and baby brothers and sisters 
came with them, and the meadow looked 
as if they were really waiting for Barnum’s 
show; and once or twice during the sum- 
mer the girls clubbed together and served 
lemonade and cake in the rustic house. 
At first the children who came there did 
not seem to know how to play, or they 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 


3 * 

were too rude, pulling the daisies bois- 
terously; but there were enough for all, 
and every night during the summer they 
carried flowers back into the smoke in 
their little dirty hands. Those evening 
hours brought color into their cheeks and 
health and renewed vigor to their bodies. 
As for Mary, their first “ child,” she 
looked ruddy and brown, so the Madon- 
nas named the meadow after her, and 
also after Mary the Mother, who hung in 
their club room, holding a child out to 
them, and called it “ Mary’s Meadow.” 

The club room on Calvert Street was 
never open now except on rainy nights, 
and every evening found them across the 
river with the children. All this time 
they had not the slightest idea of benevo- 
lence. They were very poor themselves, 
and, like most poor people, were generous. 
They simply shared their meadow with 
the children. Mr. Welcome would some- 
times wander into the field and watch 
them playing. He was certainly getting 


Madonnas of the Smoke . 35 

ample payment in his own coin, — plenty 
of girls’ laughter and children’s voices, to 
say nothing of screams and shouts. 

Once a lady in a grand carriage, driven 
by what the children called a “ perlice- 
man,” stopped it in passing, got out, 
walked a little way down the bank from 
the road, and calling one of the children, 
asked him what they were doing. 

“ Please, marm,” answered the little 
boy, very dirty and ragged, “ this be 
‘ Mary’s Meadow,’ where us children come 
and play every night.” 

“ Who owns the field? ” asked the lady. 

“ The Madonnas,” answered the boy, 
“ and they be regular bricks, they be.” 

Then one of the older children ran up 
the bank after Willie, and explained all 
about the Madonnas, and who they were. 

The lady got into her carriage again, 
and it rumbled over the bridge and turned 
up a side street, — the quickest way out 
of the smoke, — to reach the other city, 
of beautiful homes. So, she thought to 


3 


34 Madonnas of the Smoke. 

herself, as she lay back on her silken 
cushions, there were girls who called 
themselves “ Madonnas ” down in (what 
she had carelessly called all her life) the 
“ slums,” and into whose depths she had 
seldom penetrated because she had a 
vague idea of its being dangerous. She 
quite forgot, in her smooth, well-regulated 
life and unruffled experience, that it is not 
alone the narrow alley-way and crowded 
street that leads to destruction ; that, in 
fact, a broad road has been emphatically 
spoken of as leading there, and that it 
was the one road shared, alas ! in common 
by some inhabitants of both cities. 

She went away, shortly afterwards, to 
spend August in a fashionable hotel by 
the sea, and to take the air at stated 
times under a red parasol on the beach ; 
but her one glimpse of the “ Madonnas ” 
and their children had been a revelation 
to her, for they, spite of poverty, seemed 
to have retained that lost art of enjoying 
life simply, — a simplicity of which she, 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 35 

like so many American women, had lost 
the keynote. Her thoughts all summer 
had away of turning to “ Mary’s Meadow,” 
and the Madonna Club. Best of all, these 
thoughts ripened into something after- 
wards. It was, in fact, the beginning of 
those of the beautiful city sometimes 
going down into the city of narrow ways 
and blackened pavements, not alone to 
help, but to learn something of life and 
work, of self-sacrifice, and even joy, from 
the “ Madonnas of the Smoke.” 


56 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 


V. 

the summer passed, the girls could n’t 
help realizing something of the good 
they were doing. One evening Alice car- 
ried a little cripple across the bridge and 
laid him down on the grass where he 
could pick the flowers within reach. He 
was so happy he kept singing to himself 
a song he had learned at a Mission School 
of a Sailors’ Chapel, near the wharves. It 
was something like this: — 

“ Guide thy lambs, O Jesus, 

Guide ’em all de way, 

To de happy medders, 

Far, far away.” 

At first Alice hardly understood the 
words he was singing until he said, as she 
took him up in her arms to carry him 
home, — 

“ Happy medders ain’t far away no 
longer, be they? ” 


Madonnas of the Smoke. 37 

Thus the days passed warm, yet bright 
and breezy, in “ Mary’s Meadow,” — black, 
hot, and sultry in the city of great foun- 
dries. The twilights grew shorter. The 
fuzz began to turn brown on the tall cat- 
and-nine-tails that grew by the brook, and 
they began to pick, in place of white vio- 
lets, the maiden’s tress of August. Still 
the little feet pattered across the bridge in 
the sunset light, many a bare foot longing 
for the cool lush grass. Then they would 
all gather together and watch the lights 
grow bright on the other side of the river, 
and the church towers and chimneys stand 
out like silhouettes against the sky, then 
fade into indistinctness, as the shadows of 
this life will fade in the light of a more 
perfect one when we stand, some day, on 
the other shore. 

Thus the vision of all that was bad and 
unlovely in the life of the streets faded 
and died away from the eyes and ears 
of the children. They heard bird voices. 
They looked up into the sky with no 


38 Madonnas of the Smoke. 

dense cloud between themselves and 
heaven. They picked flowers and car- 
ried them back to their garrets. What 
had these Madonnas of the Smoke done, 
all unconsciously, by only sharing their 
meadow with the children? They had 
brought back color to their cheeks ; they 
had taken the sorrowful old look from 
their faces; they had given them a part 
of their heritage in their Father’s — the 
good God’s — beautiful world of color, of 
sound, and light; they had carried in 
every little child, even as Mary the 
Maiden Mother did of old, the Divine 
Child in their arms. 


THE END. 























































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